Poetry: Military
This is a collection of poems written while I was serving in The Queen’s Royal Irish Hussars from 1971 to 1983.
Kitchener's Man
I wrote this in remembrance of my grandfather Harry Clarke who joined the 1st Battalion Royal Warwickshire Regiment in 1913 and went out with the British Expeditionary Force in that year. He joined as a private, was wounded in 1916 (rank then was sergeant), at the First Battle of the Somme, he was promoted to second lieutenant and returned to the front for the second Battle of the Somme. At the end of the war, he took command of a Chinese Labour Battalion that was doing battlefield clearance on the Somme. He married Anne Weaver whose health was affected by their living on the Somme (most of which was a marsh), and in 1922 he resigned his commission (captain) to look after his wife. He was a gentle man and I remember him with much love. I wrote this around the time of the Falkland's War. It should be read at a speed of 120 paces per minute.
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
They’re calling for volunteers,
(but it'll be over for Christmas):
United are playing on Saturday;
and there'll be room for a likely lad,
whose fast with his feet
and hard with his fists.
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
Kitchener's man, you'll be;
and United on Saturday for me:
with my feet and fists, I'll be a likely lad.
You'll not see me, but Saturday,
and I'll not curse and swear
to the Corporal's yell.
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
Drill your feet to the bone
and wear your hands raw:
dig your trenches and fill your bags,
scream your hate and stab your bayonet;
and sob with fear - (it could be you).
You'll not see me, but Saturday.
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
You've gone to the Front,
carrying your kitbags
and singing 'Tipperary':
you'll not see me, but Saturday;
(and it'll be over by Christmas);
and you'll be home then: United.
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
They're calling for volunteers,
(but it'll be over by Easter)
and United play on Saturday;
and a lad whose quick with his feet
and strong with his shoulder,
will find a place - (there's a likely lad).
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
But Kitchener's man I'll be,
and no Saturday for me;
called to the Colours:
"You'll make a likely lad,
and curse and swear
to the Corporal's yell."
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
I've drilled me feet bloody
and worn me hands raw;
I've sobbed with fear
and cried with anger.
I've stabbed yon likely dummy
and dug yon bloody trench.
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
They're sending us off by boat,
the bait cast with the fishing float.
They're sending us off from the coast,
to keep and to feed someone's boast.
They're sending us off to beat
another Country's petty seat.
They're sending us off to caulk
their seams with lead-tongued talk.
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
They're sending us off to war,
to tread on the greenery and gore.
They're sending us off to fight,
into the unforgiving night.
They're sending us off with music,
"God Save The Peoples' Pridy Physic."
They're sending us off this 'proud day',
"God help us and save us," we pray.
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
There'll be no bloody Saturday for me,
we're United now, all bloodless faces;
we likely lads called to the Colours -
now all waiting behind the Front,
cold, wet, muddy and miserable:
"Finished by Easter - (?) - bloody Easter!"
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
Another Christmas, and it'll all be over,
(but you'll take that with a spit in the wind);
here crouch I, 'three-sheets-to-the-wind',
as legless as any gutter drunkard;
my legs stretched before me,
my lap awash with mud and vomit,
my bottom cooled by red-clotted water.
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
There'll be no Saturday for me,
nor fight against other likely lads,
and I'll not win against United:
I've a pension for me legs
and a medal to remember 'em by.
'Tis the sound of the feet, my boy,
'Tis the sound of the marching feet;
'Tis the sound of the bugle's joy,
'Tis the sound of the drummer's beat,
'Tis the sound of the fifer's toy;
'Tis the sound of the War-Call meet.
And me? I was Kitchener's Man.
©Chris Green, 1980 & 2006
The Military Marchers' Fault Finding Guide
This was written while on a weekend pass. The year was 1977 and I was in Baden, Switzerland. At the time we were heavily into the annual weapons training cycle; and having spent weeks of having the General Purpose Machine Gun Fault Finding Guide emblazoned on my soul, I wrote the following poem. It should be read as a series of instructions, followed by a series of actions - have fun.
Marcher marches:
Marcher stops:
Stoppage:
Immediate Action:
Check:
Pack, large;
Battle webbing;
Respirator;
Helmet, steel;
Poncho;
Kit, gas;
Sling, rifle;
Rifle;
Mags;
Ammo;
Bayonet;
Tool, entrenching;
Water;
Salt;
Rations;
Bag, sleeping;
Clothing, spare;
Weight gone:
Marcher Marches:
Fault found.
Weight gone:
Marcher fails to march:
Prolonged stoppage.
Wait five minutes.
Secondary Action:
Check:
Clothing;
Boots;
Feet;
Temperature;
Last Feed;
Last Water;
Rectify as necessary:
Marcher marches:
Fault found.
Faults rectified:
Marcher fails to march:
Long-term stoppage.
Long-term Action:
Check:
Morale;
Morale OK
Ask him:
Warn him:
Tell him:
Order him:
Charge him.
Impetous given:
Marcher marches:
Fault found.
Impetous given:
Marcher fails to march:
Permanent stoppage.
Attend funeral:
Praise stubbornness.
©Chris Green, 1977 & 2006
Guard Drill
This is a piece I wrote while on guard duty on the 11th May 1983; I was the Guard Commander, which is a duty given to corporals so that they can pretend to be sergeants once a month. It should be read at 120 paces per minute.
Left-right, left-right, left-right,
"Guard will turn to the right,"
left-right, left-right, "Right turn:"
two-three, left stamp, left-right,
"By the right, Guard, eyes right:"
right pace, left pace, eyes right,
left-right, left-right, left-right,
"Guard, eyes front, by the right:"
right-left, right-left, right-left,
"Guard: Halt," check-pace, one-two,
stamp on the left to halt...
"Guard: to your Duties, Fall-out,
Officer on Parade:"
right turn, two-three, left stamp,
two-three, arm up, Salute:
Pause: two-three, right arm down,
two-three, march-three-paces.
©Chris Green, 1983 & 2006
The Self-loading Rifle
Another poem written in the early hours of the morning of Guard Duty, this is dated 7th September 1983, and is written from the point of view of a weapons instructor. Rifle enthusiasts will note that the MV (muzzle velocity) is wrong the actual speed did not scan.
"Self-loading rifle, seven-point-six-two,
length fifty-two inches with large size butt,
MV: seven-hundred-twenty-per-sec.
Number EIGHT! Look this way! WAKEY, WAKEY!
Take that tank-drill sabot shot for a run
TEN times round the square and STAY AWAKE!!
Number three are we happy? JOIN NUMBER EIGHT!!
Number one open that window - MV?
Wait for it, wait for it; I ask the question
and you wait, and then I nominate - number seven.
Too slow, rejoin the class.
WHEN I SAY RUN ROUND THAT SQUARE, I MEAN RUN!!
MV-seven-two-zero-feet-per-sec.
Look this way, points to note:- cocking handle,
butt, sling swivel, pistol grip, trigger mech.,
safety catch - two positions; safe and fire,
magazine hole, magazine release catch,
bolt, bolt open catch, carrying handle,
sling, front sling swivel, gas regulator,
flash suppressor, front sight and magazine.
Have you got that? Wonderful memories(?)
Any questions? THERE'D BETTER BE...What's this?
What do you mean you don’t know? Why don't you know?
You don't know? I'LL TELL YOU WHY YOU DON'T KNOW
ITS BECAUSE I HAVE NOT TOLD YOU - YET!!"
©Chris Green, 1983 & 2006
The Caretaker
Every now and then a Regiment had to supply someone to look after a hut, located in Walkenreid, Bad Sachsa, in what was then West Germany. The hut was an IGB (Internal German Border) hut and was used by army patrols as a stopover or temporary base.
Caretaker, caretaker, why are you here?
Caretaker, caretaker, have you no cheer?
Visitors, if you come, bring your own cleaner
and cook, rations and washer, and pad-locker.
Visitors, if you come, please DO remember
the Duties, and the food for the caretaker.
Bring your own maps and binos for the border
and sleeping-bags for the overnight sleeper.
An adventurer be, if not the boarder
and please, fail me not and bring your own weather.
Caretaker, caretaker, have you no beer?
Caretaker, caretaker, why are you here?
©Chris Green, 1982 & 2006
The Kitchen
A view of the truly disgusting kitchen in the IGB hut at Walkenried, it was built underground, next door to the toilets and showers, and the whole place literally crawled with insects and vermin of all descriptions. The place was impossible to clean, I sent a report in to this effect and a lot of improvements were done. A loose sonnet form.
The walls and ceiling are heat-slicked grease
Covering an inadequate white. Scant.
The yellow linoleum: now grimy,
Now smelling of too much disinfectant
And carrying tracks of mildewed grease.
Lino.. Roof for a secret, insect world.
Cockroaches compete with beetles, grimly
For dance space on the kitchen table top.
Gold-brown centipedes hide in the damp mop
And house-flies live, and bear, and die their days
In the hidden corners and cranny-ways.
Deathwatch beetles group, to the barracks come
And occupy the wooden, kitchen world.
Termites! In the spoon? "Soldier Welcome!"
©Chris Green, 1982 & 2006
Shop With Intercide
1973, the Vietnam War is still going, and, rather like Iraq today, the Americans were waging war from the air with bombs, napalm, defoliants; while their, largely inappropriate, forces sat around in fixed positions. The politicians have changed, but essentially nothing else has. Wars and confrontations are usually about the control of some form of resource, e.g. oil. The poem should be spoken in the tone of voice of an American second hand car salesman doing a TV advertisement.
Intercide says it for you!
We have Seasonal Products
for all "UN"-Seasonal Pests!
Racial Problems? Pigs in your Bay?
Gotta race on your LAND?
Try our handy genocide pack,
a selection of SIX plagues,
at Off-Peak, Reduction Prices!
Gotta Primary Problem?
Weevils in your local woodpile?
Try our nippy Defoliant Spray:
New! Improved! NAPALM A3 -
with the Extra Bright Light!
For this Year only, WE are giving away -
Yes! Truly, Folks! Giving AWAY!
One can of Fine Old Spite
(Fine Old Mustard Gas, Vintage 1923),
with each order of NAPALM A3.
So pop along to your nearest stockist
at the Sign of THE RISING CLOUD:
For Complete Reliability -
You can rely on "US!"
©Chris Green, 1973 & 2006
A Day at the Ranges - from Dawn until Evensong
This is a collection of poems written during the Annual Range Firing at Höhne in Germany, in 1976; and which form a long narrative. There is prose, there is black humour, there is rhythm; there are descriptions and there are emotions. We have these machines which we tended and coddled, and trained with; the reality of going to war in a steel coffin was never mentioned, though our life expectancy was 21 seconds, from the start of world-war-3; after that we were all on borrowed time. Armoured vehicles look impressive until you see what modern, man-portable, infantry anti-tank weapons can do; or helicopters, or aircraft, or artillery; in reality a tank is an anachronism, which should be housed in a museum along with the rest of the obsolete war impedimenta. The armoured vehicle replaced the horse as the mode of transport of cavalry and the concept or strategem of cavalry lives on; only how it is put into operation changes. More and more, the tank is used in 'policing' the civilian population - the White House in Russia and Tianamen Square in Peking being notable examples.
DAWN:
The grey and wind-blown and dry dust,
raised in clouds by the breezy gust;
the tank echelon soldiers "cussed"
the clinging of the sandy dust:
link, link, link, lay-the-track - link,
HECK-toring, rattling, metal clink;
black, rubber feet cushioning the track'd link
wipe coarse rock-dust with hot-rubber ink.
EARLY:
The Carrier leaks hot engine oil,
wending from its rearmost belly-plate
an infant river flowers through the sand,
to the fan-like, oil-dirt deltas:
creeping to the brown, gloomy mere.
Stunt fir trees cringe on the water's edge,
seeking safety from the black oil slicks
that slop, thickly, on the stagnant water:
an odour of burnt engine oil
and cold fuel, floats from the pool:
greasy, blackened grasses, grimily
compete for clean sand, with careless spills.
Rainsfall in hazy, maze-like curtains,
painting circles of light upon oil
and shallow, dead, lapping water.
A water-saturated log floats,
oil-born within and upon the slick;
a frog cries from a sandy shoreline,
he hops, leaving his oily footprint;
tadpoles. from spawn, float in crowded rot:
a mute trumpet-call to life, and death.
LUNCHTIME:
One Exercise upon the Soltau Plan
I cut my finger on a can.
Rather than using a leaf
I wrapped it with corned beef.
AFTERNOON:
Six Scorpions in a line,
their engines a rumbling whine;
the crews, working and readying
their chargers prior to range-firing.
Heavy concussive guns echo in the damp air,
other people, other guns, another range at Höhne.
Chieftains in simulated hides
at the edge of the range rides,
eight hundred and fifty horses,
pawses, channels and courses, then forces
the fifty tons of battle tank
from the night hides and down the bank.
Machine guns rattle in air
spitting red tracers from their lair.
"Six-hundred-COAX-little-old-ladies-on-knoll-FIRE!"
link, link, link, lay-the-track - link,
HECK-toring, rattling, metal clink;
black, rubber feet cushioning the track'd link
wipe coarse rock-dust with hot-rubber ink.
A heavy metallic 'chunk', the muzzle lifts and falls. "Loaded!"
"SABOT-one-two-hundred-teapot-beside-bunker-FIRE!"
The order is repeated, the barrel drops,
the gunner lays sight and barrel onto his target:
the loader checks his safety guard and switch,
then settles the next round in his clutch.
The gunner yells, "Firing now!" Then blinks his eyes.
The gun slams back mechanically; even slowly,
the breech block drops and some fumes enter the turret.
Outside, a flourescent orange fireball roars from the muzzle,
the barrel is forced backwards; as the round, now a red dot,
seems to pounce upon the target, as a single ray of light,
from the first spark to the kinetic flash of target doom:
the ear-defenders are squeezed into your ears
and hot gasses, ash and shreds of bag-charge swirl in your face.
The big rubber concertina, around the barrel, by the turret,
is squeezed tight; then the gun barrel waddles forward.
Six seconds later a second round joins the first. Over-kill.
ASIDE:
On ranges the loader lost his hand,
the gunner fired, and watched it land,
and yelled, "Minus-two-hundred-ADD!"
"I fear this is a passing fad."
WAITING:
The firing circuit light shows red;
the safety switches are all at fire;
the gun is loaded and the guard made:
the loader crouches, head against the wall,
knees slightly bent, with a small tremble,
a fresh round is cradled in his arms.
The others sit, tensely waiting the word,
the gunner re-checks his target's range,
and fingers his firing and selector switches;
eases his foot on the MG firing pedal,
taps his foot on the RMG pedal,
and rocks, back and forth, on his small seat.
The commander wipes his hands on his parka,
eases the headset, under his beret,
checks through his sight, flexes his hand,
pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs his eyes,
he checks his switches and selectors
and checks the gunner's and loader's and gun's
switches, selectors and indicators.
The commander flips to i/c and checks the driver,
flips off, and wonders, again, why any sane man...
MOVE:
The grey and wind-blown and dry dust,
raised in clouds by the breezy gust;
the tank echelon soldiers "cussed"
the clinging of the sandy dust:
link, link, link, lay-the-track - link,
HECK-toring, rattling, metal clink;
black, rubber feet cushioning the track'd link
wipe coarse rock-dust with hot-rubber ink.
DUSK:
A cigarette stub floats in a puddle,
music blares in tuneless muddle
and a breeze freshens the air,
the storm clouds depart;
and a renewed, cleanly world
stirs itself at the edge of dusk.
Heavy lorry engines roar in the distance,
someone coughs; a car with blaring music, goes.
A landrover whines passed on the road,
then a tractor, grumbling with trailers of muck.
A pile of black-painted, rusty cartridges,
of the twenty-millimetre varieties,
obscenely erect by winter-garbed trees.
Yellow-painted granite stones mark
the extent of range and tank park;
and the yellow, squared concrete:
the firing point complete.
A trooper in green coveralls, wearing a combat smock,
carries a sub-machine gun slung from one shoulder;
the range guard, trudges, wetly and slowly passed,
his DMS boots grating in the wet, gritty sand.
A silhouette bird balances on top of a birch,
warbling and whistling, an out-of-season tree bauble,
balancing in the wind in the failing light.
The cigarette stub swirls in the water.
The car is back, and the music, louder still,
beating the listener in the ears and brain,
contemptuous of the evening peace.
A juvenile silver birch, imprisoned in the chill sand,
sandwiched between the dreadfully noisy car
and a galvanised-steel industrial dustbin.
Behind the tree is a knoll, on top of which stands
the Range control shack, two radio masts and a flagpole;
the whole is enclosed by a tidy, single-bar fence.
A whisper of cloud streams flag-like,
in the sky, behind the flagpole:
the sun has nearly gone, leaving last rays
that turn everything into silhouettes.
Black, stark, wintered shapes
strengthened by the setting sun's spill rays:
as yet remaining individual,
not yet anonymous in the twilight.
EVENSONG:
Window enlightened blackness,
darkened military greenness;
the antenna masts, cloud-reaching,
their taut guy-lines softly singing:
the night is black and wet and cold,
touched by Water Spirits of olde,
in that beginning of Earth's age;
before the military rage.
Dark rain and darker shadow,
hide the sorrowful epitaph
of the memory cenotaph:
two wars celebrated, somehow,
as though both of them in the stone
for Man's doings elsewhere will atone.
©Chris Green, 1976 & 2006